Washing Day

The day is washed clean. 
Outside the sleet has 
drenched the buildings 
and the windows, 
infused the air with 
moisture and new life.

The sky is crystal blue 
and the tattered edges 
of the clouds recede 
from sight to marginalise 
themselves on some 
horizon - all the buildings
 
drip and the roof tiles are 
black and shiny they 
blanch the eye as the 
sun strikes their wet 
slate - my windows 
pour a residual 
water down their faces 
and the wind bends the 
heavy leaves of the tree 
opposite as they 
shower the pavement 
with tears.

This is a day of fear 
and emptiness 
when I wish my 
head scoured clean 
and sluiced of all 
its pain.

I walk my body 
in the rain 
and hope I can 
flow away all forlorn 
silence and defeat 
from my eyes.

I understand my trial
here but how
fo I bear the crown
of thorn you place
daily on my head?
In the morning
I hate to wake
and have all the
ugliness I've seen and
known flood-in like a
dirty tide
I cannot clean.

I have too much
longing in my heart
for all you
took from me -

I am wrong in being
unaccepting
of the way you
point the road
and nod me on.  I know
this weight of sorrows
must be choked
and borne.

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